The Doctor hadn't been there.

He had arranged to meet her by the TARDIS at eight, but he hadn't arrived. This worried Roz more than she cared to acknowledge. It was an hour later now, and she was safely behind her desk at the Headquarters of the Scientific Intelligence Division, with work to do. Princ.i.p.ally she was keeping her mind off what had probably happened to the Doctor and Chris. Annotated aerial photographs of London were scattered over her desk. Each crater was marked in tiny white writing, a record of each explosion which gave the location, the time it happened and the yield of the bomb used. Even with a computer, working out the course of events last night would be virtually impossible. Of course, this office hadn't got a computer. When she'd asked about requisitioning one, they didn't even seem to have understood the question. Why, then, did she have the nagging sensation that she was on the verge of making a major breakthrough?

Wishful thinking, probably. The British were dreading spring, thinking that as the weather got better, the Germans would dust off their plans for invasion, shelved last winter. The British had a codeword, 'Cromwell', meaning that an invasion had started, and they expected to hear it very soon. As far as Roz could tell, this war was dead-locked: the Germans had a powerful air force and army, but lacked the navy to carry through an invasion, and their bombers just weren't powerful enough to do more than superficial damage. Britain had the navy, it was building up the air power, but Germany controlled so much territory on the Continent that invasion was out of the question for a long while yet. Had Hartung found a way to break the stalemate? If he had, what was it?

His field of expertise would suggest some new aerial weapon, but it might not be the superbomber that Lynch thought it was. She made a mental note to research the state-ofthe-art at this time. With her knowledge of the future, it might be possible to predict which technological developments were due in the next decade or so. Had they got atomics yet? Orbital platforms? Ballistic missiles? Any of those would tip the balance. For the moment, all she could do was to stare at these photographs a little longer.

Her eye caught something she hadn't seen before. Lynch was busy with something called a 'crossword', and so she asked George to come across and pointed out one of the bombsites.

'That's St Kit's.'

Reed peered into the picture. 'Yes...' he said uncertainly.

Roz heard Kendrick coming into the room behind them. He began talking to Lynch in a low whisper.

'It is, look, that's Paddington station, that's Portland Street, there's the library. I live around there, remember?'

'Yes, I think you're right.'

'Well,' Roz continued wearily, 'this gives the time of the bomb dropping as last night at 21:00. But that's wrong. It happened the night before last, the first of March; remember I told you about it when we looked at the library?'

Are you sure you're not getting confused? I picked you up there this morning as well.'

Cwej was there when I told you.'

Reed considered this. 'By Jove, yes, he was. Well, that first night, the Germans were particularly lucky. Lots of fluke hits. The spotters must have got mixed up. We've had cases before where they've got the day mixed up. You know: it fell after midnight, so it's a different date.'

And if that observation is wrong, then they all could be.'

Roz sat back, frustrated. Reed scratched his head.

'It is rather complicated, isn't it, Captain Forrester?'

Kendrick said, coming over and laying his hand on her shoulder. 'Could you make us a pot of tea, and we'll try to help you work our way through it?'

'Admiral, I don't think that will be possible. It's a cla.s.sic chaotic system. These planes might all be following strict orders but they are all subject to random factors. Bombers get lost in the dark and drop their loads at random. High winds, heavy ground defences, mechanical problems all alter what a plane is doing. Add to that the unreliability of our eye-witnesses and the length of time it takes to get reports here it -'

'Thank you, Forrester,' rumbled Kendrick.

'Sir, it's a fact.'

'There is absolutely nothing wrong witn our communications,' he said calmly. 'Those chaps risk their lives. Do you know how many wardens were killed last week?

What would you prefer? Smoke signals?'

'I don't know, they might help. What are they?' If they had some sort of encoded-vapour transmitter, why weren't they using it?

'If you don't have anything useful to contribute, Forrester, then kindly let George and me get on with our work.' His tone had changed.

'Begging your pardon, sir,' - her emphasis on that last word was so scornful it was mutinous - 'but all you have me doing at the moment is making the drinks, a spot of typing and watering the office plant. I was brought into the Scientific Intelligence Division on the understanding that I would be able to put my scientific and a.n.a.lytical talents to use. I remind you, sir, that I outrank both Lieutenants Reed and Cwej. I've been here a week. In that time, you have welcomed their contributions, but you're treating me like some third-grade Servobot fit only for housework and preparing snacks. Well, sir, I've had enough.'

A vein on Kendrick's neck pulsed, but when he spoke, his tone was conciliatory. 'Captain Forrester, your talents may seem very impressive back in Africa and I'm sure that your teachers were delighted that someone with your background could do so well. But I did not give you permission to speak freely. Please be civilized.' To emphasize his intentions he smiled.

Roz, however, exploded. 'Civilized? Your state-of-the-art around here, as far as I can make out, seems to consist of cavalry regiments and bayonets. You attempt to work out the tactical a.n.a.lysis of a Continental war by pushing toys around a tabletop. You rely on a network of doddery old men on bicycles to bring in reports of bomb damage. Your air defences seem to be based on the principle that if we all draw our curtains at night then the Germans won't be able to see us. And don't you dare question my background, I can trace my ancestry back to Nelson Mandela himself which is -'

Kendrick just smiled, and said, 'Captain, is it or isn't it true that you once ate someone's ident.i.ty papers?'

'Well, yes.' The remark wrong-footed her, as Kendrick had intended it to.

'Is that the mark of a civilized lady?' he asked. It was, by anyone's standard, a reasonable enough question.

'It was the -' Why the h.e.l.l had Chris told them?

'Yes or no?' he pressed.

'It was... Listen, Admiral, I'm trying to help.' Roz had realized that not only had she overstepped the mark, but that she was in an untenable position. Kendrick swept from the room. Reed kept his eyes fixed on the desk. Roz covered her head with her hands. Bad day just got worse.

The Doctor was munching a triangle of toast when Steinmann entered.

The dining-room was on the floor below his guest quarters. The view of the sea was better down here and the decoration was just as opulent. There was a dark patch on the ceiling where a crystal chandelier must have swung before the war, discoloured patches on the wall where paintings had once hung. A row of bullet holes in one of the walls, presumably acquired when the Germans captured the building, had been crudely plastered up and repainted.

The Doctor continued to eat, but sized up the new arrival.

Oberst Oskar Steinmann was in his fifties, his white hair was thin and combed back over his scalp. He had a Roman profile: aquiline nose, high forehead. He was not a tall man - then again, mused the Doctor, who am I to speak? - but he was thin and well-proportioned. He carried himself like a man born to command. Naturally, not a single part of his ironed and pressed uniform was out of place.

'I take it your English breakfast was satisfactory?'

The Doctor dabbed his top lip with a napkin and replaced it on his silver tray. 'Perfectly.'

'Like they serve in England?'

'Oh yes.' Steinmann beamed, but the Doctor went on, 'I'm not English myself, but this is definitely a breakfast like they serve in England. Herr Steinmann, please don't try to ask me trick questions, because I'm cleverer than you and I'll see through them.'

Steinmann's face fell. The Doctor stood, paced the room for a moment, then whirled to face the German officer. 'I don't mind direct questions. Here's one: why didn't Wolff shoot me on the beach? It's obvious I know exactly what you've got down there. It would be safer to have me shot.' The Doctor realized what he had said, and gave a nervous smile that he hoped would be disarming.

Doktor, you mustn't judge the Reich by the standards set by the English. If you were a German agent captured in England, you would indeed have been shot. We, however, choose to keep all spies sent to the Channel Islands alive.

Unlike your own government, even the British agents we pick up in plain clothes are treated as military prisoners of war, with all the rights and privileges that status entails. The same goes in France and the Netherlands.'

'Of course, you want to find out exactly what they know.

What I know.' The Doctor had moved back to the window, and stood staring out to sea. He heard Steinmann come up behind him.

'Naturally. But we are a more civilized people than the English,' he said quietly.

'Forgive me if I don't believe you.'

'You mustn't believe the propaganda of our enemies: we observe a Christmas cease-fire, the British do not; unlike Britain, women don't serve in our armies, they stay at home where they belong; we only target industrial and military sites, the RAF deliberately bomb German civilians; the British use phosphorous bombs and dum-dum bullets, we have banned the use of both. And, of course, it was the British and French who started this war by refusing to negotiate back in October '39'.

Steinmann counted these examples off on his fingers.

'You invaded Poland.'

'A state created a mere twenty years ago by the Allies in a draconian treaty, in order to punish us, a state that contains millions of German people. Already in this war, the British have conquered Iceland, Iran and Madagascar: once neutral countries, now part of the British Empire.'

'What about the three concentration camps on Alderney, in which Russians are used as slave labour, and are expected to survive on sc.r.a.ps of food and clothing?'

Steinmann nodded his head, gracefully conceding defeat on that issue. 'You're an exceptionally well-informed man, Doktor. So why can't you see that the world has changed?

We are witnessing the twilight of the ancient regime. This is obvious to every German person, because of what has happened to us during this century. Our colonial possessions were taken off us after the last war; we saw our economy collapse. But we rebuilt and now we have grown stronger than ever before. Capitalism is dead; imperialism is dead; democracy is dead. What remains? Communism? Do you have any inkling what hardships the Russians are suffering under Stalin? How that once great country has collapsed?

The British intelligentsia idolizes a man who has killed millions of his own people, both deliberately and through his own incompetence. Food sits rotting in fields. Cement is shipped from one city to another, but it sets before it arrives. I predict that when we attack, the Russians will turn on their own leaders and that they'll refuse to fight us. In the slums of England and France, illiterate children die of preventable diseases. What "freedom" do they have under bourgeois democracy? That era is over!'

Steinmann was only inches from the Doctor, and he kept his voice level. His eyes were a piercing blue, his profile and bearing made him imposing, but the most frightening thing about him was that he looked so ordinary. This man wasn't mad, or a fanatic; he was in complete control of himself.

Steinmann continued. 'When this war has finished, the British and French empires will be gone, and a new Europe will have sprung up, a vast area controlled by Germany, the greatest empire the world has ever known. We shall enter a new golden age of technological achievement. Fascism is the future. Not just a fusion of all the old styles of government, but also something new and glorious. Have you seen Albert Speer's plans for Berlin? By the end of the next decade it will be the greatest city the world has ever seen. Every sign of decadence and corruption will be burnt away from Europe.

The slums and ghettos will be cleared, criminals and degenerates will be eradicated, moribund economies will be resurrected. In Fascist cities, grand palaces, great amphitheatres, vast offices and factories, superb autobahns, huge public s.p.a.ces will be constructed. Every city in the world will be a monument to Fascist victory, to the invincibility of the Reich. That, Doctor, is why our armies were welcomed by cheering crowds in Austria, Czechoslovakia, Poland, even in Paris itself. That is a fact.

'The British pretend that the German people are, what was the phrase? - "writhing under the n.a.z.i yoke".

Nonsense, we have never been more prosperous, have never had such firm leadership, such belief in our destiny. I heard word this morning that we have entered Bulgaria. We march onwards. I am the son of a Dresden shoemaker: could any Englishman of my upbringing have risen as far through the ranks? You see: we are not ogres. I am not an... alien. I am a reasonable man.'

'A man of wealth and taste,' murmured the Doctor.

'Is that a quotation?' Steinmann asked, trying to place it.

'Not yet, no. But it will be in the future.'

'You see, Doktor? You are already thinking like a Fascist, thinking of what is to come. A reasonable man such as yourself has nothing to fear. I understand your moral objection: you see the war, you see the people dying - on both sides - and you wonder whether there is another way.

There isn't. The world must be purified by the flames of this final battle. The war will be swift, though. See how the Netherlands fell in four days and how we swept across France in less than a month? When the time comes, our paratroopers will take London in a day and our eastern army will be at the gates of the Kremlin in three weeks.

It is inevitable, before a new age can rise from the ashes.'

'How very Wagnerian,' remarked the Doctor dryly.

'I loathe Wagner. This is not some adolescent fantasy, Doctor. This is not a scientific romance like Mr Wells' film.

n.a.z.ism is fact, n.a.z.ism is the future. The Shape of Things to Come. You have a simple choice, Doktor: join us or be destroyed.'

'You want me to join you?' the Doctor spluttered. This was not what he had expected.

Benny pa.s.sed the Gaumont cinema. She had never been inside. From an historical point of view it would have been fascinating to see all those n.a.z.i propaganda films. Last week they'd put on a Rienfenstahl doc.u.mentary, no copies of which existed in her century. Most scholars agreed that the last existing print had been destroyed in 1945. Withdrawn, de-accessioned and junked. The islanders, though, found it difficult to be objective, and anyone who went to the cinema these days was labelled a collaborator. Takes one to know one. She'd been here three months, but had not visited one of the dolmen or tumuli that dotted the island. The prehistoric ruins didn't seem terribly relevant in 1941, a year that was quite capable of creating ruins of its own.

There was a wind blowing, and it whipped the breath away from her face. Even the air here was rationed. Clouds dashed across the sky like Zeppelins.

G.o.d, when you're drunk you don't half get maudlin, Bernice Summerfield. She'd been saving her bottle of Scotch for a special occasion. One hadn't come, so she'd drunk it early that morning before leaving the guest-house. It was her first alcohol for three months, and she'd forgotten how much she enjoyed it.

Come on, Doctor, if you're coming.

She was walking through the harbour now. That would explain the smell of fish. She giggled, and turned a corner.

Herr Wolff was standing over the body of a young woman. The n.a.z.i turned to face her.

Benny made a run for it, but he had caught up with her within twenty yards. Expertly, Wolff kicked Benny's legs from under her and she fell to the pavement.

'I have done nothing. I'm just drunk. I'm lost,' she stammered. Wolff bent down, trying to place her face. He mustn't find out about Ma and Anne. She'd told him her name, her false name, at the hotel a couple of days ago, hadn't she? The game was up. Give him the answer.

'I am Bernice Summerfield. I am an agent of a hostile power. I am unarmed. I surrender.'

Christopher Cwej ordered himself another coffee and a croissant. There were half a dozen other patrons outside the cafe, most of them octogenarians. Chris had been here for just over an hour. Twenty minutes ago, a n.a.z.i had asked for his ident.i.ty papers. The soldier had peered at the doc.u.ment for a minute or so, checking it very carefully, but had been satisfied.

You would hardly need to be a secret agent to realize that the n.a.z.is had something planned here. There was a steady stream of armoured cars, motorbikes and tanks.

Soldiers guarded checkpoints all over Granville. Fighter patrols constantly circled overhead. He'd arrived just before dawn by surf boat. The n.a.z.is were on the verge of completing their sea defences, but hadn't quite done so yet, and so it was still possible to slip a small boat in. Half a mile from the coast, the Prometheus had surfaced, and he'd rowed the rest of the way in. Once on the sh.o.r.e, he'd signalled to the submarine with his hand-lamp, then deflated the dinghy. Finally, he'd removed his waterproof clothing and buried them above the water line.

On the way into town that morning, he'd walked past fortress-like observation towers and gun emplacements. The beaches and cliffs were heavily mined and ringed round with barbed wire. He had been very lucky not to have been spotted.

His mission briefing was very clear. It had been hoped that the French Resistance would make contact here and they'd compare notes on Hartung. For some reason, they hadn't come. Intelligence reports placed Hartung at an airstrip two miles north of here. Chris would have to make his own way across the country.

It was six o'clock, and it was getting dark outside.

Reed had come back to his office after an hour in the file room, and was surprised to find the door ajar. He pushed it open. Forrester sat at her desk, still peering into the aerial photographs. Lynch must have gone home. She hadn't seen him; she had her back to him. He knew how old she was from her file, but still couldn't believe she was in her forties. He would have guessed mid-thirties at most. It must be something to do with living away from the pressures of civilization. His eyes drifted down from her thick, cropped hair - which was flecked with grey, he noticed for the first time - to her slender neck, which was a dark chocolate-brown.